Sunday, December 2, 2018

athirst is my soul

Today, one very dehydrated young woman (yours truly) was reunited with her water bottle after one full month of going without. I was once inadvertently separated by this water bottle when I left it by the Nutella jar (damning, but not unsurprising) in Tantur’s kitchen as I stopped for one last handful of dates before my ungodly early departure.

My solution to that problem was to have a veritable stranger carry my water bottle with him from Jerusalem to his home in North Carolina and then ship it to me in Indiana. Because I just couldn’t stand to be separated from it or buy a new Nalgene, I suppose? Love, as they say, causes us to do strange things.

This water bottle is, if nothing else, a world traveler. And has a willful peripatetic streak, so it is certainly is a water bottle worth loving, if you’re in the market for one of those. It is disgusting because I rarely wash it, but I’ve carried it on hikes, it has faithfully seen me through most of my graduate school classes. It’s been a charming conversation piece, it’s just the perfect water bottle: it holds a perfect amount of water: not too much, not too little.

It is a beautiful purple color that is charmingly gender neutral while certainly ascertaining some sex (and appeal to spare).

I don't know what I hoped regaining it would signify—but it does feel significant. To spend a month parched and without a steady supply of water has left my lips chapped and bleeding.

And then I am reunited with my water source. I am demanding significance from a moment that yields no other signifiers.

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